


sorry I loved you, sorry I never found the words

by mostlikelydefinentlymad



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eavesdropping, F/M, Friends to Lovers, John's blog, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, POV John Watson, Post S3, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Post-Reichenbach, john is not so good at technology, john moves back to 221B, most characters are background except for John and Sherlock, not so platonic, sherlock is a nosy lil snoop, sherlock's thoughts now added after reading
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-19 10:18:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7357288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mostlikelydefinentlymad/pseuds/mostlikelydefinentlymad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>there are entries on John's blog that were never meant to see the light of day. however, when your flatmate happens to be a madman, nothing is sacred.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 7/9/2016: now finished! thank you for taking this ride along with me and for your nice comments and kudos. hat tip to my silent readers too & guests. I hadn't written johnlock in ages, this was really fun.

**THE BLOG OF DR. JOHN H. WATSON**

[[x](http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/)]

**John Watson**

**Blog entry:** 04/25/2016

 **Title:** More than words -

 **Status:** unpublished

 

Sorry for the unspent bullets and the collection of wrinkled Tesco bags under the kitchen counter. Sorry for every minute that your face danced along my line of vision when the band played December 1963 and I held her in my arms with the thought of leaving magenta and lime lights behind in search of you. Sorry for being a jealous arsehole when you were with Janine and doing a bangup job at royally screwing things up between us with a wedge that will only grow wider between us - we'll never be ready will we? We never are.

Sorry that I'm not willing to apologize for wanting you.

Loving you.

Needing you.

Bickering with you over how to properly organize a sock drawer (nobody does that by the way, not a single soul).

I'll apologize for everything I've ever did to wrong you but not that.

\--------

Sherlock is not proud of himself for snooping through John's blog when he's not home or otherwise occupied but there are things that John will never say out loud, words that he will never give wings to. The draft folder of his blog is a treasure trove of feelings and jumbled thoughts that are so very John that it's nearly painful to read. Sherlock has skipped many of them and skimmed over others - rants about inadequate pin & chip machines at Tesco, ranting about Harry and notes about Eastenders.

Boring.

And then there are raw entries such as the one above. They leave Sherlock feeling gutted and confused. John loves him.

Sherlock - the former addict and overall mess of a human being. The same man he'd once called a machine.

The best man who'd professed his undying love for John at his wedding of all places.

Sherlock is loved.

John is in love.

It's dizzying.

Sherlock takes this information and carefully places it in a room in his mind palace that he has created just for John.

It will be safe there and each word will be remembered verbatim.

\--------

**John Watson**

**Blog entry:** 05/24/2016

 **Title:** Little white lies never hurt anyone **  
**

**Status:** unpublished

Mary mentioned that I said your name in the midst of sleep last night. And the night before. She described my voice as scraped clean of every emotion aside from a painful aching _want_ and I was hoping she wouldn't find out this way; when I'm vulnerable and fragile. When I cannot defend myself.

"You love him," she stated.

I'm a former soldier - I have witnessed enough expressions throughout the years and, more than most, I know when a person is lying or seething with contempt. Mary was boiling and hardly holding back - if it wasn't such a dire situation I might've even laughed but she's lethal. I cannot gamble on her empathy or lack thereof.

"What?," I questioned with mind reeling.

How could she ever possibly know? I'd been careful, paranoid even with my obsession of covering my own tracks.

The vein in her forehead pulsed as she gritted out (with a smile none the less - more akin to a snarl) - "Admit it, John."

I was grasping at straws by this point with palms clammy and an urgent itch to run far away from this conversation; perhaps to 221B.

Home.

"I don't know what you're on about but I'm exhausted. Come to bed when you're ready," I huffed and turned away from her - hiding like the coward that I am.

 _Cowards do not hide, John. They hobble away with an air of shame about them so as to not be found out but they do_ not _hide, you should know this,_ reminded the voice inside of John's head that was a dead ringer for Sherlock.

Great, I can't even think in private.

"Sherlock Holmes," Mary spat out as she sat up stiffly and pursed her lips together.

"He's my best friend."

The sound that came out of her mouth could not be described as humor nor did it contain a single drop of humility.

"And?," she prodded.

I shrug - what exactly is she expecting to hear? That we frequent LGBT clubs every Wednesday night for half priced cocktails? That we prowl the streets of London after midnight?

"Spit it out, _John."_

It didn't sound right on her lips, my name. It took on the auditory characteristics of contempt and thinly veiled suspicion, sent a chill down my spine.

Upon my silence, she tried once more.

"You said his name last night in your sleep. We're married, John. What sort of woman do you take me as? I do not share, remember this."

In that moment I felt as if all of the the blood in my veins had suddenly turned to ice at the threatening tone in her voice. She'd meant it, god help me but she'd meant it.

"Mary. I'd taken a sleeping pill if you recall? Two actually as the first didn't take. Unusual dreams are a side effect."

I'm becoming an expert at deceiving others, a liar in my own right.

She didn't even bother with attempting to even her breathing as she let loose of the next attack.

"You love him."

It sounded dirty on her lips; a discarded crusty dishrag that once called itself new, promising.

Like the beginning of a beautifully strange friendship.

I snapped.

I'm tired of defending himself, tired of the lies. I jabbed a finger in her direction (this woman who once regarded me so warmly) while shrugging into my jacket - "I want a divorce."

She had the decency enough to gasp aloud at the statement as if she _hadn't_ saw it coming from a mile away. It was a performance and she was in the leading role. Honestly the woman deserves an award for her spectacular acting.

"John," she pleaded - tone switching to sad as it sought out sympathy much like a toxic snake wraps itself around its victim and sinks fangs in until they kill over. A snake, yes that's quite fitting.

She'd changed upon the reappearance of Sherlock; had grown sweet like Summer honey and then turned bitter once the marriage certificate had been signed. Should've expected as much.

It's time to give up the ghost, to move on. Happens to everyone, seems like.

I've never felt more alive in my life than I do when I've Sherlock Holmes (the madman) at my side.

\--------

Sherlock quietly listens at John's bedroom door for the sound of him softly snoring and is not disappointed. When he is sure that John isn't waking anytime soon, he types in the password to John's laptop (0129) and steps into John's life, his heart; the thoughts he keeps but does not voice.

Mary. The woman John had fallen in love with while Sherlock had fought for both of their lives far away from John, from home.

The woman who'd nearly killed Sherlock in a blatantly obvious attempt to shackle John to her.

The same person who'd coldly regarded Sherlock at she and John's wedding and flaunted their marital status at the reception as she spun around the room in John's arms.

All this time...all this time he'd lost. They could've had something - lilac weddings and homicidal honeymoons - from the very start.

He sucks in a deep breath and promptly closes the computer, returns it to its resting place and steeples his hands under his chin, picks apart every moment that felt like _something._

John. 

\--------

 

**John Watson**

**Blog entry 06/15/2016**

**Title:** Nightmares

 **Status:** unpublished

If Sherlock were reading this he'd scoff at the ordinary title (he probably is reading this, the nosy bugger) but it's late and I'm drawing a blank. Woke up at 3:45am in a cold sweat with the feeling of blood trickling down my shoulder and a sickened feeling in my stomach like someone had force fed me anti-freeze. It's ridiculous of course but I wouldn't put it past my flatmate (did I mention that I moved in? because I did, it's...nice) to try.

I dreamed of shrapnel so real that I expected to wake up in a puddle of my own blood but the only damp spots on the bed were due to my own sweat. What a relief.

I shuffled to the sitting room and powered up my trusty laptop, began typing this without any thought in mind as to where it's going to go so keep that in mind. I'm possibly delirious with lack of sleep.

If Sherlock ever wanted to know anything about me now would be the perfect time. Keep seeing two of every letter on this screen anyhow. In any regards he did ask me if I was well and I lied of course. He just looked so fragile and happy as he bent over his microscope. The man never sleeps, it's mental how he gets by on practically nothing at all.

We did end up sharing some brandy though so the night wasn't an entire bust.

\--------

"It's a mediocre title, John. You're correct in that assumption," Sherlock mumbles to himself.

The flat is empty save for himself. He'd refused to leave it for less than an 8 and had sent John to assist Lestrade. Classic jealous lover, literal stabbing.

Predictable.

And as such it gave him time to catch up on John's blog.

The thought of John being plagued by nightmares once more makes Sherlock want to pack them both up for a holiday. Perhaps a chance of pace, of scenery.

Bee's. They could take a trip to Sussex. There's an excellent apiary there with-

No. John wouldn't like that and as Mycroft (Sherlock groans) would say - "We cannot outrun our problems, Sherlock. They will always find their way home in the end."

Shut up, Mycroft. Not now. Don't you think I know that?

Comfort then. Sherlock would have to find ways to appease John, distract him. What does John like to do?

Shop at Tesco, complain about bread, visit crime scenes, buy knicknacks for Mrs. Hudson, make tea.

Shopping. That would be unexpected, maybe even pleasant.

\--------

**John Watson**

**Blog entry:** 11/24/2016

 **Title:** No

 **Status:** unpublished

Don't ever take Sherlock Holmes shopping when the store is crowded with people grabbing last minute Thanksgiving fare. It took ages but we managed to make it to the checkout lane (we were behind no less than 15 people and the self check out's were jammed because of course) and Sherlock cut down 6 of them by deducing that the lady with the large bottle of vodka lived with her ten cats and hadn't had a proper date in 3 months, the balding man with mounds of junk food was a chronic stress eater who'd just gotten out of a bad relationship, the person with the baby would've preferred to have adopted a bull mastiff instead and also the baby was fathered by her current brother-in-law.

That was fun.

And by that I mean mortifying.

Only took us 10min to checkout though.

We came home and gave Mrs. Hudson a cornish hen (she acted like she'd won the lottery) then ventured upstairs where I forced the world's only consulting detective to help me string Christmas lights ("it's not even December yet, John!" <\--what a drama queen) and hang tinsel.

Honestly it was one of the best days I've had since the divorce (she took more than half of our belongings by the way which is fine by me as most of them were hers anyhow) and I've got one pensive arse to thank for that.

Not that I will, he'd hate that.

Christmas is right around the corner and I must be out of my mind because I actually hunted down a little shoppe that carries fresh mistletoe. John H. Watson - the madman's foolish hopeless romantic. God save the queen there's no hope for me.

\--------

The sound of water hitting the shower floor can be heard in 221B as John is enjoying a post-crime scene scrub (per Sherlock's suggestion as John had been quite testy. He'd been sleeping less than usual. a shower should relax him. It served the dual purpose of allowing Sherlock time to read the unpublished entries on John's blog)

Sherlock soaks in every word - We all have our methods of surviving holiday shopping, John. Don't act like you didn't enjoy it.

Mistletoe: an evergreen parasitic plant, very rarely grows upon a pear tree. Common in Herefordshire. Romantic connotations; kissing.

Kissing.

John would like to kiss.

John would like to kiss _me._

What would it be like to touch him? I feel as if I'd catch on fire, as if two chemicals never meant to react would join and combust.

What if it ruined everything?

John would leave.

He would pack up his belongings and never return.

He'd fall in love and remarry, they'd have a daughter and possibly name her after me (ridiculous notion).

And I would lose everything.

I'm sorry, John. I shall have to take care of that mistletoe for you.

\--------


	2. Chapter 2

**THE BLOG OF DR. JOHN H. WATSON**

[[x](http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/)]

**John Watson**

**Blog entry:** 11/29/2016

 **Title:**.

 **Status:** unpublished

 

He ssoakd the mistletoe in sulfur dioxide & flat smells like deeath n' Im used to that bbut I bought it for reasons and hes an arse and I dont even knoow why I care if he cares that I care, does that make sense

drinking have been, a lot

aired out theflat, hes in my bed

My BED, im on the sofa all alone. mrs hudson brought 2 blankets, itchy. Im itch

i llove him

i lovee him

ssHerlock HolmeEss

he doesnt love

\--------

Sherlock reads the blog entry once more and whispers to the night (as John lays sleeping, tossing and turning, upstairs)

"John. My John. I do love. Only ever you. I apologize a thousand times over.

Also I'm rather fond of your bed, it smells like you and if I close my eyes I can almost pretend that you're with me."

The night knows all of his secrets, all of his fears.

He makes a note to buy all of the mistletoe that he can locate.

He'll take that leap for John.

\--------

 

**John Watson**

**Blog entry: 12/03/2016**

**Title:** Arsenic & him

 **Status:** unpublished

 

Molly came 'round today, met her at the morgue. Forty five year old victim who appeared to have died of natural causes but his husband said he felt like something was up because Callum (that's his name)'s mum never approved of their marriage. She stayed with them for a week because Callum had broke an arm in a horse riding accident - she'd insisted.

Turns out it was arsenic poisoning and she'd been visiting frequently when the husband (Alban) was away on business trips. Sherlock figured it out in about 3min tops because he's Sherlock Holmes and yeah.

And then he said he'd dosed me with arsenic a couple of times in my tea and I didn't even notice. I gaped at him like a fish out of water because what else can you do? Went home and told Mrs. Hudson to never let him make a single kettle of tea. She clucked her tongue at him and shook her head like she was dealing with a naughty child (he can be like that a lot) then gave him a tin of biscuits.

That's not helping matters.

Don't encourage him, Christ.

Got up around four a.m. because I couldn't sleep (shoulder was aching, must've slept on one side for too long) and he was stretched out on the sofa; staring at the ceiling like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

He said I'd interrupted a very important visit, I don't know what he was on about as we were the only two in the room. He then started ranting about unrealistic Victorian standards for men and sterile marriages. I made us a kettle of tea ( _ **I**_ made it) and he surprised me by insisting I join him on the sofa. I put up a fuss because why not the chairs? They're closer to the fire, warmer.

Still.

We sat there in silence with his head on my shoulder, my hand on his knee and it felt like this is where we should've ended up all along. I mean we didn't go any further than that but I'm telling myself that it's not simply wishful thinking. I'd greatly like it if he touched me again - anywhere, everywhere.

I've never had this feeling with Mary or with anyone for that matter. Sholto...we came so close but never made it past that bump in the road where it all fell apart.

Can't go down that path again, I can't focus on a singular mistake. Sherlock isn't James, James isn't Sherlock.

I can do this. I can let this happen. I can take my time.

\--------

Sherlock narrows his eyes at the mention of James Sholto's name.

"He still loves you, John. Why can't you see it? Will that be me at one fixed point in the future?

Loving you from afar once more and resorting to suicide when it hurts too deeply to ignore?", he mutters to himself, worried.

With a defeated sigh he softly whispers - "Don't go," as he closes out the tab and stores the laptop where John had left it.

Sherlock, himself, is wired in a spectacularly odd manner and thus he's forever asking his shadow for directions,

he does not want to lose his way. Never again.

One touch, one seed of trust and love softly burrowing in.

It is enough for now.

\--------

 


	3. in another life you would've made an excellent criminal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which John finds out.
> 
> [the final chapter! this one is rather long and fluffy, it's my favorite]

**THE BLOG OF DR. JOHN H. WATSON**

[[x](http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/)]

**John Watson**

**Blog entry:** 12/21/2016

 **Title:** I know you're reading these

 **Status:** unpublished

 

Sherlock Holmes is quite possibly the biggest arsehole I have ever known.

 

That got your attention didn't it?

 

William Sherlock Scott Holmes, do you really think I'm that daft that I wouldn't notice how you've been uncharacteristically flexible lately? How you keep sending me off to soak in the bath after a case when I know good and well that you hate it when I do. You're forever complaining about never having clean towels (I only use two by the way and we have a total of five. yes. five. that's because you've scorched- nevermind. just...I'm getting off track) and how the mirror is steamy afterward. Not really sure what you expect, it is a _bath_ after all.

What I don't know is exactly how long you've been reading my unpublished blog posts but I do know that you have been. You're the consulting detective here, you'll figure out how I knew on your own. I'm sure it'll take you all of 2 minutes because you're brilliant and charming and.

Sherlock.

Let me start over. Okay - if I timed this just right you'll be reading this within the next 20 minutes after I post it and I'll be picking up some beans and milk (your card is about to expire by the way, we need to get a new one). Should be home shortly after if I'm not knocked off or kidnapped (is it kidnapping if the victim consents? by the way, tell your brother that if he wants to speak with me he can text or call like a normal human being).

It should also be noted that if you've read the important posts that I didn't publish then you already know what you've most likely deduced ages ago but decided to delete (for reasons I'll never understand) - that is to say...if you feel the same then...I'd like to take you to Angelo's at some point.  

And if I'm wrong then give me a week to find a new place and I'll be out as soon as possible.

But if there's one thing you take away from this mess let it be this: _I meant every word._

_\--------_

It's impossible, completely improbable and yet it's true.

Somehow John had picked up on Sherlock's snooping and he should be furious, should be ranting and raving while packing his bags because most people would be. And yet John would be slightly angry, yes. But not to the extent that Sherlock would've assumed.

He'd left for Tesco with a smile - the same one that lit up his face the last time Sherlock had offered to do the shopping. Granted that instance had nearly cost them both their lives due to the conniving Jim Moriarty and his homicidal intentions but that's not important right now. 

Still it didn't sit right with Sherlock. It wasn't as if John never smiled. He's been known to crack a grin while standing at the slackened feet of a homicide victim or at other times that most people (and John has never been _most people_ ) find to be tacky and unacceptable but that is neither here nor there and they haven't had a case in days. For that matter John hasn't been on a date in months (highly suspect, that).

There are three reasons that Sherlock has narrowed it down to:

1\. John slept well last night and did not toss and turn nor did he suffer from the nightmares that come so often. Easy. He did, this is a fact.

2\. He has purchased more mistletoe and is planning a stealth attack when Sherlock least expects it. Highly likely.

3\. Against the odds he has became aware of Sherlock's chronic snooping and is only mildly irritated. Moderate only due to Sherlock's lack of a distasteful response (had John expected him to be repulsed? livid?) 

 

All three, Sherlock decides. He finds that numbers two and three make him feel uneasy, restless.

When presented with a case one must first examine the evidence.

He opens John's laptop, nimbly types in the password and pulls up the latest unpublished post. His breath catches as he reads each line. He has known about John's affection for him for quite some time but having it laid out there for _him._ For _him_ to read is overwhelming. John will be home in less than twenty minutes and Sherlock will...he'll...what.

He quickly closes the laptop and begins to pace.

Options:

1\. Kiss John.

2\. Kiss John again.

3\. Flee.

He runs his fingers through his hair and tugs slightly, irritated at his own brain for being completely useless. None of these options are realistic. 

Perhaps if he left right this minute he'd have enough time to take a cab to the morgue. Yes. He'd whip a cadaver into shape and-- _no_. John deserves to know the truth. He has to know that he is every word that has ever tumbled off of his lips in praise of Sherlock.

John Watson is brilliant, he is magnificent, he is incredible. John is the brightest of suns, the entire universe in one person. He has to know that, surely he does. Steps two and three then. 

He checks the time. John should be walking through that door in about 2 minutes, 5 tops.

Just as he's about to text Mycroft for advice (he'd never live that one down) John trudges through the door with bags in hand and raindrops cascading down his coat, dripping from his face.

It's clear to Sherlock then as if a map were spread about the sitting room - he wants to spend the rest of his life with this man. He wants a slip a finger along that naked ring finger and adorn every inch of the chapel with lilac, wants to quit pretending that he's not terrified at the concept of a future without John.

"Sherlo-," John begins.

Sherlock surges forward in one smooth movement and presses his lips to John's. He hears rather than sees the bags hit the floor as one hand tugs at his rich burgundy button up until his chest brushes against John's while the other hand cups his face, brushes a thumb against flushed cheeks. John seems to come alive under his touch as Sherlock wraps both hands around his hips and _moans_ when John's tongue shyly darts along his lower lip. John holds him tighter at that, kisses deeper until they break for air.

John is panting and half grinning like a madman when they part as he jabs a finger in Sherlock's direction.

"You...wanker. You arsehole. You COCK. You hacked into my blog and read my...my posts."

Sherlock leans in and, more gentle than John would've ever assumed he could be, presses a kiss along the underside of his jaw. From there he drops soft kisses along the skin, leaves a path of dampness in his wake that makes John weak in the knees.

"I apologize," Sherlock whispers before leaving a kiss behind John's earlobe. He doesn't miss the shiver that racks John's body. He'd content with just that even if John were to decide that he'd made a mistake.

"Don't...don't do that again," John half heartedly grits out.

"You're going to have to clarify. Kissing you? Touching you? Reading your private blog posts?"

He can handle the latter but as for the rest; he'd never regret either of them.

John takes a deep breath and exhales, cocks his head to the side. "Snooping, Sherlock."

Sherlock steps back a few inches. Perhaps John's irritation overrides any feelings he might've had.

"Noted."

John rubs a hand over his eyes and shakes his head. He smiles & yes. John Watson _is_ the sun, he is and always will be Sherlock's conductor of light.

"Come'ere."

He draws Sherlock back into his arms then dangles a piece of mistletoe overhead.

 _Sentiment_ , Sherlock thinks to himself as he leans into the kiss.

\--------

**THE BLOG OF DR. JOHN H. WATSON**

[[x](http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/)]

**John Watson**

**Blog entry:** 12/24/2016

 **Title:** Happy Christmas!

 **Status:** published

 

Happy Christmas!

By the way I don't believe I've ever thanked you, Mike so consider this our Christmas gift to you: Thank you for everything, from both of us.

Harry, I don't want to hear I told you so. Just a heads up before you say it, also give me a ring later and lay off the eggnog.

 

**[photo album attachments]**

Greg kissing Molly on the cheek under the mistletoe as she blushes

John giving Mrs. Hudson a forehead kiss under the mistletoe

Sherlock pressing a kiss to her cheek 

Anderson scowling in the corner with an ugly Christmas jumper on

Sally poking fun at it with a glass of wine in hand

Mycroft looking as if he'd rather be anywhere but here, staring into the fireplace

Sherlock playing his violin by the window that John and Mrs. Hudson had framed with Christmas lights

Mrs. Hudson pulling Mycroft into a warm but awkward embrace, his arms remaining flat at his side but appearing grateful none the less

John wearing his most festive holiday jumper, sitting along a chair arm at Sherlock's side as Molly rambles awkwardly about her latest cadaver

John and Sherlock kissing under the mistletoe in such a manner that caused Greg to pull out his phone and snap a series of photo's while Mrs. Hudson clucked and shook her head - "Such a scene...oh dear and at my age"

Sherlock opening a small gift from John, wrapped in shiny red paper - a new magnifying glass

Mrs. Hudson unwrapping a rather large gift - an air purifier for when she enjoys her herbal soothers

A picture of the skull adorned with a crown made of tinsel.

A group photograph of everyone (excluding Mycroft who'd scoffed at the idea and insisted on taking the photo instead) together, surrounded by tinsel and a brightly lit tree]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so this one was a 10 on the 1-10 super fluff scale but I couldn't resist. they deserve all of the little kisses and fluffers and idk if you noticed or not but John didn't know what to do with himself after he found out, ahahah


End file.
